Book Review: Camus, A Romance (2009)

“It strikes me often how bizarre it is to spend so much time thinking about someone you can never know.”

Can you imagine a publisher requesting that the writer Albert Camus learn how to “brand” himself? That he take to Twitter, open a Facebook account, and regularly blog? That he develop a “platform” to promote his products (i.e., books) and maybe stop smoking as a concession to the anti-tobacco interest groups? That he hire a publicist who will work closely with the in-house marketing department in rolling out a promotional campaign for his work?

I think about this as I read Elizabeth Hawes’ new book, Camus, a Romance. Hawes wasn’t content to merely write yet another Camus biography or literary analysis; no, the book is a full-blown love letter to her favorite author, her imaginary mentor, her literary hero. In her manuscript Camus — who died in an automobile accident in 1960 — exists not simply as a historical figure but as someone who lived very clearly and very dearly in the author’s mind and heart.

And who could blame Hawes for worshiping the world-renowned Algerian writer, journalist and activist? He was a man of both words and deeds, a fierce patriot, passionate artist and disciplined writer who committed his entire life to his work. Who thought of his work as his life, as the ultimate expression of his ideals as well as the perfect place in which to carry them out to fulfillment. He wrestled with grand ideas, debating them with fervor and sometimes anger with his friends and enemies, including Sartre and de Beauvoir, in print and in cafes, against the backdrop of a France collapsing under the terrifying weight of the Third Reich. Camus, who struggled throughout his life with his failing health as a result of a bout of tuberculosis in his young adulthood, never let his frail constitution stop him from railing against injustice and war. As a correspondent as well as editor, he wrote countless articles about the plight of Algeria under the French colonial regime and even led the Resistance movement as editor of an underground newspaper. As a writer he wrote extraordinary novels, essays, plays, and critical analyses that explore his evolving philosophy and political leanings. He died at the young age of 46, three years after winning the Nobel Prize for Literature, but what he accomplished in those years was nothing short of astonishing.

Hawes packs all of this, and more, into this extremely readable and fascinating narrative of Camus’ life, throwing in some literary criticism and historical background for good measure. Along the way, she effortlessly weaves her own story of falling in love with the young, restless Camus from afar. She, a young college student, had come across what is possibly Camus’ most oft-repeated line, “In the depths of winter, I finally learned that within me lay an invincible summer.” (“Au milieu d’hiver, j’apprenais enfin qu’il y avait en moi un ete invincible.”) It resonated with the impressionable young Hawes, coming as it did at an especially emotionally trying time in her life, and like a lovestruck teenager diving into the well of meaning found in the song lyrics written by a charismatic rock star, she immediately felt an intimate connection with the darkly handsome and brilliant writer with the soulful prose.

As New York magazine points out in a review of the book published earlier this summer, the phenomenon of literary obsession isn’t exactly rare and, indeed, has been explored many times before, even by Camus himself. I harbor an obsession with the World War I Arab military hero and writer T.E. Lawrence, who wrote Seven Pillars of Wisdom and The Mint, and is better known in popular culture as Lawrence of Arabia. I’ve two dozen or more books about him, as well as some foreign lobby cards of the film that I’ve collected from eBay vendors around the world. I’m willing to bet that, among My Inner French Girl readers, there are probably one or two (if not more) who also carry an intellectual — if not also personal — torch for a particular writer or poet that, to outsiders, may seem odd but to someone like Hawes or myself sounds perfectly normal.

To her credit, however, although Hawes takes the reader with her on her journey to research institutions, libraries, archives, and important historical sites both here and in France, she lets Camus’ remarkable life hold the spotlight throughout the book, and deservedly so. Camus lived during an extraordinary period in history, at a time when luminaries of French philosophy and literature lived and breathed and worked. His output, considering his physical limitations and the circumstances that often constrained his ability to work (war, foreign occupation, exile, love affairs, money woes, and even the dreaded day jobs), was astounding, a testament to his rigid discipline and the devotion he committed to his craft. He considered himself an artist and refused to compromise his principles and ideas, but he was open to considering other ways in which he could express his ideas, whether in the form of theatrical plays or novels or newspaper columns. At the end of the book, the reader is left with a comprehensive and sympathetic portrait of a complicated, dynamic and sexy genius. Exactly the man an impressionable Elizabeth Hawes fell in love with decades ago, and with whom she is still obviously enamored. It’s easy to see why.

At the same time, it’s an absorbing and illuminating story of a working writer, at a time when writing was a profession in which one could make a decent living, when writers didn’t have to worry about “platforms” and Twitter followers and publicists and marketing campaigns. Camus only had to write well and have original ideas. I imagine that he would be absolutely appalled at the state of the writing profession today, when a word’s worth is measured by the “eyeballs” it attracts or the amount of product it can sell. Where bestseller lists are dominated by books about making money or losing weight or finding a life partner. Where celebrities like Pam Anderson and Nicole Richie (!!!) can garner six- or seven-figure advances for ghostwritten novels while writers like Mark Salzman and Beth Ann Bauman struggle to find an audience. (Read Salzman’s Lying Awake and tell me it didn’t blow you away. I dare you.)

Would-be writers among you — especially those with a particularly pesky social conscience — are well-advised to read this book, especially if you’re in despair about whether or not your gift means anything to the world. (As a writer, I can relate. Totally. I have my days when I wonder if my writing is really only valuable to corporate suits seeking “copy,” not literature. God forbid any form of self-expression finds its way into a grant proposal.) Even those of you who don’t really have any literary ambitions will likely find this book irresistible, if only for its introduction to a corner of colonial France that few people know anything about but which irrevocably changed the history of the empire. Camus loved Algeria nearly as much as he loved his own mother — and that apparently was saying a lot – and Hawes’ extensive study of his life there reveals why. The evocation of the half-forgotten paradise that produced Albert Camus is worth the relatively small price of admission into the pages of this book.

FYI: Click here to listen to an interview that Elizabeth Hawes had on National Public Radio’s The Diane Rehm Show.

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